Page 10 of UnTrained: Volume Two
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Isettle into the chair, watching him move confidently through my kitchen like he belongs there. There's something soothing about his presence in this space—something that makes the apartment feel more like home than it has since my return.
"I hope you like omelets," he says, sliding something from the pan onto a plate.
"I do," I answer, then realize I haven't actually eaten an omelet since before. I have no idea if my tastes have changed, if the things I once enjoyed still bring me pleasure. So much of me feels different now.
Aiden sets a plate in front of me—a perfect omelet filled with cheese, tomatoes, and what looks like spinach. The sight and smell make my stomach rumble.
The food looks almost too beautiful to eat, but I manage to take a tentative bite. Flavor explodes across my tongue – rich and savory and nothing like the bland nutrition shakes from the facility.
"This is amazing," I say, taking another bite with more enthusiasm.
Aiden smiles, settling into the chair across from me with his own plate. "Eat slowly," he instructs. "Enjoy each bite."
I nod, forcing myself to slow down. It's still hard to believe that food can be savored rather than just consumed for survival. At the facility, meals were functional, never pleasurable.
"What are you thinking about?" Aiden asks, his eyes studying my face.
I hesitate, not wanting to bring the facility into this moment, but something about his steady gaze makes me want to be honest. "How different this is. Having breakfast with someone. Tasting food that has flavor. Being able to... enjoy things again."
His expression softens. "That's good, Lana. Reconnecting with pleasure is part of healing."
Pleasure. The word sends a complicated flutter through my stomach. I've been afraid of feeling anything too deeply since my return, as if experiencing anything too deeply since my return, as if experiencing pleasure would somehow invite more pain. But with Aiden here, watching over me, I feel safe enough to let myself feel again.
"After breakfast," Aiden says, cutting into his omelet with precise movements, "I want to try something that might help with your anxiety. Something that will give you tools to use when I'm not here."
I take another bite, considering his words. "What kind of something?"
"Meditation, of sorts. A way to center yourself when memories or panic start to take over." His blue eyes hold mine across the table. "Are you willing to try?"
I nod, grateful for the offering. Since my return, the panic attacks have been unpredictable and overwhelming—memories surging without warning, leaving me gasping and disoriented. "Yes, Sir. I'd like that."
We finish breakfast in comfortable silence. I'm still getting used to this—to having someone in my space who doesn't demand constant attention or obedience, who allows silence to exist without punishment. It feels almost luxurious, this quiet companionship.
When we've finished eating, Aiden takes our plates to the sink. "Leave those," he says when I start to rise. "I'll clean up later. Right now, I want you to focus on what I'm going to teach you."
I settle back in my chair, folding my hands in my lap. The small act of allowing someone else to clean my kitchen feels strange but liberating. One more decision I don't have to make.
Aiden moves to the living room and gestures for me to follow. "Sit on the floor," he instructs, pointing to the space in front of the couch. "Cross-legged, if that's comfortable for you."
I lower myself to the carpet, arranging my legs beneath me. The position feels vulnerable somehow, looking up at him from the floor, but not in a threatening way. More like I'm opening myself to whatever comes next.
Aiden sits on the couch directly behind me, his knees on either side of my shoulders. "I'm going to touch your shoulders now," he says, his voice that perfect blend of gentle and commanding that makes something inside me unwind. "Is that okay?"
"Yes, Sir," I answer, my voice steadier than I feel.
His hands settle on my shoulders, warm and steady. The weight grounds me, anchors me to this moment instead of letting my mind drift back to dark places.
"Close your eyes," he instructs.
I let my eyelids fall shut, darkness washing over me. Without sight, my other senses heighten—the sound of Aiden's breathing behind me, the warmth of his hands, the faint scent of his cologne mingling with the lingering aroma of breakfast.
"Focus on your breathing," he says, his voice low and close to my ear. "In through your nose, out through your mouth. Slow and steady."
I follow his guidance, drawing air deeply into my lungs, holding it for a moment, then releasing it slowly. The simple rhythm is soothing, pulling me deeper into the moment.
"Good," Aiden murmurs. His thumbs begin to move in small circles at the base of my neck, working at knots of tension I didn't realize were there. "Keep breathing. When thoughts come—and they will—acknowledge them, then let them go. They're just clouds passing through the sky of your mind."
